The Porch Light
by newxyorkxloser
Summary: She leaves the porch light on. That's how you know she misses you, that he's gone, that she needs you, wants you, whatever it is that makes her keep you around. And you come, always HGxGW oneshot


You can't be the only one that sees something more than just her loneliness. This is so much more than just the fact that she's lonely or unhappy or she made a mistake or something, it has to be. It just has to be, because the way that she touches you, the things she makes you feel and the things you're sure you make her feel, those things can never be spawned from just loneliness. You absolutely refuse to believe that.

And, yeah, the fact that this is wrong has crossed your mind. In one ear, out the other. Fine, you're married, and fine, so is she, but this is real. This girl, the girl who's been one of your closest friends for years and years, your husband's little sister, the girl you kissed for the first time when she was thirteen in a field outside Hogwarts school, when you were still students there, is love. Ginny Weasley is love like you've never known it in anybody or anything else, and you're not going to let some silly thing like marriage or family or morality come between you and that.

You don't want to say that you were in love with her from the first moment that you saw her, partly because the first time you saw her you were eleven and she was ten, hiding behind her mother's skirt, and partly because you don't really see how that whole love at first sight thing works. Love at first touch, at first kiss, at first words, fine, that's okay, but not at first sight. God only knows how you could fall in love with somebody just by looking at them. That's like being able to pick up a book you've never read and recite everything about it and how it made you feel, which, contrary to common belief, you can't do.

You, Hermione Granger, are sleeping with your best friend's wife.

You feel her hands on your stomach, and there they go again. The chills. The way she makes you feel and the way your head spins whenever you feel her brush up against you and how, no matter what, she's always so, so warm. She whispers to the skin over your hip that she loves you.

She was actually your girlfriend, for a period. A fleeting moment of absolute bliss in an otherwise mundane life of boys and work and school and god knows what else it was that you spent your time doing. You don't remember why you broke up--some silly reason, probably. Something that, if you knew how things were going to end up, you would've done anything to fix. But you didn't know, how could you? And now she's gone and gotten married and so have you and you're back here again, but it's nothing like the way you ever would've wanted it.

She leaves the porch light on. That's how you know she misses you, that he's gone, that she needs you, wants you, whatever it is that makes her keep you around. And you come, always. You stand at her door while the sun sets and lights up all the miles of flat farmland and mountains behind you, and you stand in the stupid dresses you always wear and breathe in the summer air, the sound of the crickets and the sight of lightning bugs all around you, until you feel her hands on yours and her lips and nothing else seems to matter. Nothing else seems real and the tiny little bit of doubt and the little voice in the back of your head telling you that it's enough, that this has to stop and you're going to stop it tonight, they all disappear in her arms when she closes the door behind you.

It's always been there. Always. You've watched all these boys build her up and then you watch her free fall and spiral out of control when they're gone. You've sat there and let her cry and tried to fix her, but god knows you could never be enough. You'd kiss her and tell her she was beautiful and she'd slide her hands under your clothes and whisper in your ear that she never wanted to lose you.

But then he found her. Harry fucking Potter. He finally realized just how beautiful she is and how amazing and how special and she picked him. She fucking picked him when you've been here all along and you're sure she must've known when she declared, "I do," she must've. She must've known how you felt and what she'd been doing to you for so many years and how you noticed her even when she was invisible but she'd wanted him for just as long and he finally noticed her. It was what she wanted. And fine, you could accept that. In time, you could. That's what you told yourself, anyway. Even as the weeks melted into months and those into years and nothing changed, you still told yourself that one day things would change.

She never explained why you and her would do this. Why, even though she finally had the man that she'd always wanted, and even though she could've had you in a heartbeat if she only asked, you still stayed like this. You still snuck over and she looked like she'd been crying when she answered the door. She never told you anything, she just kissed you and she expected that you'd always kiss back. She knew.

You can feel your orgasm hit, her tongue on you and her fingers inside you, moan after soft moan melting into each other, until they disappear and it's dark out and she lays breathing next to you, her lips on your neck and her naked body pressing up against yours under the blankets.

And you stay like that, you and her, for what must have been hours, her hands tracing letters and numbers and scribbles across your skin and you twisting your fingers between hers, praying silently that this will never end.

It comes to an end. It always does. You can feel her breathing change, her posture change, and the numbers and the letters stop, her clammy hand resting against your rising and falling chest as she mumbles, stumbling over the words she's said so many times, "It's getting late,"

She doesn't want you anymore, and you understand, and you whisper your soft goodbyes, your unwanted 'I love you''s, and you half heartedly pull your clothes on, kiss her forehead and then leave.

A minute passes, then two and three and almost four, and you're sitting in the grass outside her house, your own half a mile behind you. You sit and you stare at the door and you wonder if maybe, someday, things will ever be different, as the light on her porch switches off and all the shadows it cast along the grass and rocks and your own face disappear, and you're alone with the stars and crickets, and you're caught up in her all over again.

"May I say I love you more," You whisper absently as you lay back, staring up at the sky, feeling more alone than you've ever felt, even with your husband and kids waiting at home for you.


End file.
